


Mind and Heart

by Mirime



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Amnesia fic, F/M, Family, Future Fic, Gen, Other, Short Chapters, Varying POVs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-19 07:01:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 14,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mirime/pseuds/Mirime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa is in an accident which causes her to lose her memory up until the time she was eleven. How will her family and Sansa herself deal with this situation? Especially when Sansa forgot her husband whom she remembers only as the Hound.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ARYA I

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the prompt by houndandshewolf in the second comment fic meme in sansa_sandor community on LJ: _I had been thinking about an amnesia prompt too, but with Sansa losing her memories back until she was still afraid of Sandor and in love with Joffrey . Waking up after some traumatic event, not remembering her husband (Sandor of-course) or her kids or her position be it Queen in the North or Lady of Winterfell. Bonus points if Arya becomes Sandor's reluctant assistant in getting SanSan back together._
> 
> Has been posted to ff.net, too.
> 
> R+L=J very much in play. Jon/Arya are the beta ship but really not obvious.

ARYA

Arya thought she was familiar with the feelings of guilt and self-reproach and with handling them but seeing her older sister lying in the bed, pale and unconscious, a bandage wound tightly around her head, she was overwhelmed by them nonetheless. If only she hadn't insisted on that ride or if she had remembered that Sansa's riding skills, while improved from when she had been younger, still lacked in comparison to hers. If only...

"We can only wait for Princess Sansa to wake up," Maester Denar said quietly. "The wound itself wasn't deep but I am concerned for the long state of unconsciousness. Head injuries are very tricky and the longer she lingers like this, the harder it will be for her to wake up."

"My brother had been unconscious for months after his fall from the tower and he woke up in the end," Arya pointed out when no one else spoke. Rickon, almost a man grown at fifteen, was doing his best not to cry and Arya didn't dare to look at the other man in the room at all. If anyone was going to blame her for this more than she did herself, it would be him.

"Well, yes, but Prince Brandon's case was quite different. I was given to understand his prolonged state of unconsciousness was partially caused by his third eye refusing to open."

"How long do you think she will be like this?" the raspy voice made Arya wince and she finally looked at her goodbrother, a man she had once hated more than anything. Sandor Clegane wasn't paying any attention to her, though, his gaze fixated on the motionless woman in the bed. Outwardly he looked calm but Arya could see his hands clenching into fists and relaxing again. He was doing his best to keep himself under control. Arya would have preferred if he shouted at her.

"That is hard to say, my lord," Maester Denar swallowed. "A couple of hours at the very least, I would say."

Clegane nodded and stood up. Arya finally snapped, the tension getting to her.

"Where do you think you are going? That's your wife in here."

"And our children wait for the news about her state," he jerked his head in the direction of the door. "Catelyn is old enough to understand what's going on and she has been most likely crying since she saw you bringing her mother back."

Arya was about to apologize - something she did rarely - but he didn't wait for it, slamming the door as he walked out. Rickon looked at her with an accusing glare.

"What? It's not my fault he has a short temper," she muttered before she stood up as well. Ravens needed to be sent, to Jon and to Bran. Luckily, both of them were at the Wall together and Viserion would have them at Winterfell within two days of receiving the message. Daenerys, too, would most likely want to know. She and Sansa had grown close ever since Jon's legitimization made them a family. "I am going to write letters to Jon and Bran, Denar. I will bring them to you in an hour."

"As you wish, my lady."

Arya walked out quickly, the sight of Sansa being so still making her uncomfortable. It had been an innocent suggestion. Sansa had been looking pale after spending the better part of the year indoors after birthing her third child. Daeryssa was collicky often as a newborn and Sansa had spent many nights tending her youngest. The baby girl got better after she reached six months of age and started crawling around and Arya, who had come in to visit, had cajoled Sansa to take a ride with her, to get out into the sun.

The door to the children's room was closed and Arya didn't stop by to listen if Clegane was there or not. He was a good father, Arya had to acknowledge. He was far more patient and gentle with his offspring than Arya would have thought or expected of him. Shaking her head as if that would help her shake off her errant thoughts, Arya entered her own room and sat down at her table, her task of informing the rest of the extended Stark family about Sansa's accident being one she didn't look forward to.


	2. SANSA I

SANSA

Sansa knew something was wrong the moment she woke up. Her head felt like it was about to split in half and she was back in Winterfell, in a room she didn't know. She tried to sit up but collapsed back down before she managed to. A groan escaped from her mouth as the impact made the pain in her head sharper for a moment.

"Sansa!" the exuberant voice was her only warning before she was engulfed in an embrace by her brother.

"Robb?" she questioned, not used to her solemn older brother acting like this. The boy pulled away and she noticed the differences. Yes, there were the Tully eyes and hair but the features were slightly different, belonging to a stranger.

"No, not Robb," the boy rolled his eyes. "I'm Rickon, did you forget?"

"Rickon?" she repeated, her voice cracking at the end as she stared at him. But Rickon was only four and the boy in front of her was much older than that. What was going on? The boy claiming to be her youngest brother nodded and looked to the side.

"Arya, see? She woke up. She did."

"Wonderful," the voice that replied to him belonged to a grown woman from what Sansa could hear. And then the woman moved closer and Sansa gasped. It was Arya, but Arya who had grown into her frame. The dark hair and grey eyes, even the long Stark face were unmistakable. But Arya was supposed to be nine, two years younger than Sansa herself.

"What happened?" was the only thing that Sansa could think to ask. Arya looked down, a guilty look on her face.

"We went riding and your horse threw you down. You hit your head really hard and lost consciousness."

"How long?" she dreaded the answer. It must have been years if her siblings had changed so much. Another thought hit her. Her betrothal! What had become of her betrothal to the Prince?

"Two days. We all were very worried about you," Arya told her, handing over a glass of water which Sansa accepted gratefully. Her throat felt parched and she needed to keep asking. If she was unconscious for two days only, why had everyone changed so much?

"I'll go tell Sandor, he'll be glad to hear she's up," Rickon who had been watching her carefully spoke up. Sansa frowned.

"Who is Sandor?" she asked and both Rickon and Arya stared at her incredulously.

"He is your husband, remember? Big, ugly man with a nasty temper?" Arya told her with an affected nonchalance while Sansa paled. Her husband was ugly? But she was supposed to marry Joffrey, who was handsome and a prince. Her head throbbed and she closed her eyes to will off the pain. She didn't understand what was happening to her. "Sansa?" Arya's voice was much closer now and there was genuine worry in it. "Get Maester Denar, Rickon, now!"

Sansa wanted to ask who this Maester Denar was and why Maester Luwin wasn't called in. He had been the one to tend to all her injuries since childhood. And for that matter, where was her mother and father? Well, father must have continued on to the King's Landing to fullfill his duty. But her mother could have at least looked in on her. Unless she was with Bran. Yes, Sansa recalled now that Bran, too, had fallen and been unconscious for far longer than her. Still, a short visit from her mother would certainly help her sort herself out.

"Where is mother?" she whispered and Arya's eyes suddenly gleamed in realization.

"What is the last thing you remember?" her sister asked and even though Sansa found the question strange, she answered nonetheless.

"We left Winterfell with father and King Robert. The last camp we made was half a day away from the Neck. Now tell me where is mother? And Lady? Where is Lady?" strange how long it took her to remember her wolf. Arya sat down on her bed, taking Sansa's hand carefully into her own.

"Sansa, that was eleven years ago. Father and mother are both dead and so is Robb. Rickon is the Prince of North and you are his acting regent until he comes of age. You have a husband and three children."

It was too much in too short a time. The pain in Sansa's temples exploded and she succumbed to the oblivion.


	3. JON I

JON

Bran enjoyed riding on a dragon far more than Jon himself but their two-day flight from the Wall was less than joyous for both of them. Arya's letter was short and to the point. _Sansa's been hurt. Maester Denar doesn't know if she'll wake up. Come at once._

The rebuilt Winterfell was always a welcome sight and as Viserion descended to the ground in front of the gates, several people emerged from inside to welcome them. Jon patted his dragon's neck gratefully. The white beast must have sensed his hurry and anxiety and had done his best to overcome the miles between the slowly rising Wall and Stark's ancient seat as fast as he could.

Arya was among the few people who waited for their arrival outside and she hugged him tight as soon as he climbed down. He was surprised by the trace of tears on her face. Arya cried rarely and always for a good reason. Did that mean that Sansa had died?

"Is it Sansa?" Jon asked while holding her close, Bran hovering by his side in the chair specially designed for him so he could be carried around easily.

"She doesn't remember anything," Arya told them both, pulling away from Jon to hug Bran as well. "The last eleven years are gone."

"What do you mean, gone?" Bran asked.

"She doesn't recall anything past the time we were going to King's Landing with father. When I told her about mother and father and that she was married, she fainted. Denar said it was a shock to her mind and that I shouldn't have told her at once. But I didn't know. I thought she just needed reminding."

Jon nodded and they went for the castle. The servants knew how to tend to the dragons, Jon being a frequent visitor in his childhood home and he knew Viserion would be taken care of.

"How's Sandor doing?" it was Bran who asked and Arya bit her lip worriedly.

"Not very well," she admitted. "He spent the first day sitting at her bedside, just looking at her. The second day, he beat up every man-at-arms in the castle in the training yard. Today, he did the same thing."

"Does he know? About Sansa's memory loss?"

"Yes, I told him. And he just looked at me and it was almost like back in the Riverlands when he was angry all the time but he also looked sad. It was strange," Arya admitted. Jon looked at her. He knew better than most just how tumultous the relationship between Arya and Sandor Clegane was, having been told everything about Arya's adventures after they had been reunited. He also knew that although Arya would deny it to her dying breath, she had come to respect the man her sister had chosen.

"And the children? How are they holding up?"

"Cat is the only one to really understand what is going on. She cries herself to sleep every night. Ned asks after mommy but Aemon and Visenya are keeping him distracted enough. Ryssa is too young still and her wet nurse is looking after her, too. And Clegane does spend time with them so..." Arya trailed off as they reached the door to Sansa's room. Rickon was leaning against the wall, glaring at nothing. He smiled at seeing his brother and cousin but it was strained and tired.

"Any change?" Arya asked and he shook his head.

"No, the maester's still inside. She is awake again but she just stares at the wall."

"She needs to come to terms with what had happened to her," Bran said in an even voice. "Forgetting even a small part of your life is hard and she is suddenly missing eleven years. That would be a heavy burden for anyone. And when the years missing are the ones that shaped you the most, it is even harder."

"Can't you help her?" Rickon asked. "I mean, you have learned about the old magic, isn't there some spell to make her remember?"

"I'm sorry, Rickon, but I don't think it's possible. I can still ask the trees but I cannot promise anything."

They were quiet after that, the four Starks all concerned for the fifth family member on the other side of that door. When Maester Denar finally walked out of the room, he looked at each of them in turn before his eyes settled on Arya.

"Princess Sansa asks to speak with you," he told her and Arya nodded, entering the room alone. Jon exchanged glances with Bran and Rickon and they settled in for a long wait.


	4. SANSA II

SANSA

When Sansa woke up for the second time, an unknown maester who had introduced himself as Denar was hovering over her. She answered all of his questions as best she could, asking some questions in return. The Seven Kingdoms were once again united under the Targaryen rule, Rhaegar's son Aegon having been rescued from the King's Landing as a babe and raised in Essos until he could assume the Iron Throne and Rhaegar's sister Daenerys hatching three dragons that helped them to take back the country. The biggest surprise was the revelation that Sansa's half-brother Jon was in fact her cousin and that he was the half-brother to King Aegon, both men having been sired by Rhaegar.

It was due to that fact and that Sansa herself had become friends with Queen Daenerys that North's status had been raised to the principality similar to Dorne. The rightful ruler of the North and his family were all given titles of Princes and Princesses. Rickon was to assume the role the following year when he turned sixteen.

Maester Denar also spoke of King Robert's death and her father's own, of the War of the Five Kings, of her brother Robb's fate and the Red Wedding, of her lady mother's quest for vengeance and of Sansa's own involvement in casting down the Lord Paramount of the Trident. He glossed over the fight with the Others at Sansa's own request - she didn't feel like coming to terms with the fact that Old Nan's stories had been true. It was the name of her husband that she desired to know but she decided that the question should be handled in the family. She knew he was called Sandor and that he was "a big, ugly man with a nasty temper" as Arya had described him. Funny how that almost sounded like she had married the Hound. Sansa smiled at her jest while Maester Denar went to call Arya in. She felt more comfortable talking to her sister, even if they had never been close.

"How are you feeling?" Arya asked as she closed the door behind her. Sansa was propped up in her bed - she had already noticed just how big it was - and she felt she was strong enough to handle any revelations coming her way.

"Better. I was informed of some of the changes in the land but I want to ask about our family. I understand now that mother, father and Robb are all dead. What about Bran? Is he alive?"

"Alive and well," Arya smiled. "He's Bran the Restorer, helping to rebuild the Wall again. He has spent several years learning to use the old magic of the Children of the Forest and he said he could see into the past to when the Wall was being built for the first time so he really knows what he is doing."

"That is amazing," Sansa said quietly before gathering her courage. "What is my husband's full name?"

Arya looked down, then to the side before facing Sansa at last.

"Sandor Clegane, who used to be known as the Hound."

Sansa wondered if she would faint again and judging from Arya's expression, she was thinking the same thing. She didn't, much to her own surprise.

"How?" she finally asked and Arya sighed.

"I am the wrong person to ask. All I know is that the two of you had some kind of a connection in the King's Landing and when you met up in the Vale again, it grew stronger. I spent several years in Braavos and you were already married by the time we saw each other at last."

"Oh," Sansa looked down. She hoped to find out just how she could have come to marry a man like the Hound but it seemed Arya wouldn't be able to tell her. "You mentioned children, too."

"Yes, three so far. Catelyn is the eldest, she will be five soon. Eddard is three and a half and Daeryssa is seven months old."

Sansa was silent. She had always wanted children and it had also been expected of her to bear them for her husband. But she never imagined having the Hound's children. He was so scary looking and his reputation... How could she have agreed to marry him?

"Sansa?" Arya's unexpectedly gentle voice broke into her reverie. "I admit he is not my favourite person but Clegane is not that bad. You always said you loved him and considering how he has been behaving since your accident, I'm quite sure he feels the same."

"He is worried about me?"

"Yes, quite a lot," Arya smirked, for a moment looking just like the mischievous girl she had used to be before getting serious again. "He spent a lot of time at your bedside and I'm sure the only reason he's not here right now is because he doesn't want to make it harder for you."

"I see," Sansa whispered. She pulled the blankets closer, suddenly chilled. Her husband, worried about her but staying away out of consideration. But he was the Hound! It was hard to imagine him being worried or considerate. Her fingers clutched at the fabric. Eleven years of her life were gone. Exactly half of it. It wasn't fair. How was she supposed to deal with it? Should she just accept what had happened and try and pretend that nothing was amiss?

"Sansa, I know that what you are going through is difficult," Arya was turned away from her, picking at a stray thread hanging off of a blanket. "But we are here for you, Jon and Bran and Rickon and Clegane, too. We are a pack, no matter what."

Sansa nodded but didn't reply. She wanted to be left alone, to let all of the tidings sink in and then sort through them one by one. Especially the news about her husband. If she could get away with it, Sansa would have preferred to hide in the room forever but she couldn't. Even if she couldn't remember growing up, she was no longer a child of eleven. She was a grown woman of two and twenty and she had been raised with her mother's House words. She had several important duties to attend to and she couldn't imagine neglecting them. Her children, even if she couldn't remember them, were too little to be left without their mother's presence for long. And Arya had mentioned something about the regency for Rickon and that needed to be addressed, too.

Lying in the bed while doing nothing but thinking wasn't in Sansa's nature. She looked around the room properly for the first time, taking in the obvious signs hinting at two people who usually occupied it. She was sharing this room with her husband, like her own parents did. The room itself was tidy and the only thing out of place was a bundle of fabric on the vanity that looked as if it had been put there in a hurry to get it out of the way.

"Could you bring that over?" Sansa asked her sister who was hovering quietly by her. Arya nodded and fetched the piece of fabric. It turned out to be a dress, small and childlike, with a half-finished embroidery on the front. Sansa recognized her own work easily. She frowned down at the picture, though. It depicted a black and white bird sitting on a branch. "A magpie?" she asked loudly.

"This must be the dress you were preparing as the namesday gift for Catelyn," Arya told her.

"She is the oldest child?" Sansa asked for confirmation and turned back to studying the bird. "Why would I put a magpie on her dress instead of flowers or something similar?"

"Because Magpie is what Clegane calls her half of a time," Arya answered easily. "It's his nickname for her."

Sansa stared down. He had a nickname for their daughter, a clear sign of his affection for the child at least. The man she remembered was clearly very different from the man she was married to. Or had he always been like that and she had let the judgment of other people form her own opinion? After all, it wasn't like she knew the Hound beyond his name and reputation. Well, she had obviously come to know him better but those memories were all gone now. She knew that she should be asking him - if they really had the good marriage that Arya was hinting at, it would be the most logical choice - but she was still afraid of facing him.

It wasn't just the fear of his burned face, either. From Arya's words, from Rickon's actions, even some of Maester Denar's remarks, she had deduced that she and her husband were quite close. And she couldn't remember any of it all of a sudden. He had to be terribly disappointed, maybe even angry with her. How could she face him before she sorted herself out? She couldn't.

Sansa was growing tired again. It was most likely late in the day and although she had been unconscious for well over two days, she still craved sleep. The maester had advised her to rest, too. She put down her daughter's dress - she still found it hard to believe she had children - and laid down on her side, looking up at Arya.

"The maester-"

"Denar?" Arya supplied and Sansa nodded.

"He told me to rest some more."

"Of course," Arya nodded and helped tuck her in, the gesture incongruous with Sansa's memories but she willed the confusion away. "Do you want a dinner sent to you?"

"No, I will sleep."

Sansa huddled deeper under the blankets, watching as Arya left the room. She closed her eyes, waiting for the sleep to claim her but as tired as she was, something still tugged at her mind. Something was wrong and it prevented her from sleeping. She rolled on her back, carefully repositioning her long hair so it didn't get stuck under her. It was the bed. It was too big for her alone. It was a bed meant for two people, one of them very large.

This remainder of her husband chased the sleep away again. Maybe she shouldn't have sent Arya away. Even though she had been advised against it, Sansa pulled off the covers and made to stand up. She swayed and for a short moment thought she was going to fall but the vertigo passed as quickly as it came. Slowly, cautiously, Sansa crossed the room towards the vanity. There was a wooden box filled with jewellery but she reached for the looking glass instead, looking at her own face properly.

It was so alike and yet so different from what she remembered. Her reflection showed a woman grown and a beautiful one at that. Even if the eyes were shadowed and her skin much too pale but that must have been due to her injury. She peered closer at herself, trying to find all of the differences between the woman in the looking glass and the girl she had thought herself to be. Her fingers ghosted over the corners of her mouth and around her eyes where miniscule wrinkles, barely visible by a bare eye, could be seen if one was to look for them. Her lady mother had had them, too.

_"Why do you have wrinkles?" seven years old Sansa asked her lady mother, her little fingers ghosting over the older woman's face._

_"Because I smile too much," her mother told her gently, brushing a stray lock of hair behind Sansa's ear. "And I smile too much because I am happy."_

_"Why are you happy?"_

_"Because I love your father and the four of you very much. When you are with the people you love and who love you back, that is all you need to be happy."_

Sansa put the looking glass back on the vanity. Did that mean that she had been happy with her family, with her husband and her children like her lady mother had once been? Arya had said Sansa had claimed to love her husband. She touched her mouth again. _When you are with the people you love..._

Sansa looked back over the large bed. She should get some sleep. And in the morning, she would try and find some more about her life in the past eleven years. It might be selfish but if there was a chance that she had been happy before, she wanted that happiness back. The sleep came easier to her after that.


	5. ARYA II

ARYA

"She is going to rest some more," Arya told the three men waiting for her as she stalked out of Sansa's room angrily. The woman in that room had not been Sansa at all. Sansa was stronger than that, her difficult life after their father's death shaping her will into a steel that wouldn't break. But that display in the room, that fear and uncertainty, they were more reminiscent of the naive girl of the old Winterfell and Arya hated seeing her sister like that, especially when she knew she was the one responsible for that.

"Arya!" Jon reached out to take her arm before she could leave them. "What happened?" he asked gently and Arya relented.

"She was asking about the kids and Clegane. I actually told her he wasn't that bad but she still looked scared and then she said she wanted to rest," Arya scuffed her boot against the floor. "It's not Sansa. Sansa would be out here, dealing with it all!"

"She has been thrust into a completely new world," Bran reasoned. "It is only natural that the changes she observes scare her. No matter how much stronger she has grown in the past years, in her mind she is only eleven. She must be given time to get used to it."

Arya crossed her arms.

"I know," she muttered. She still wanted to lash out at something, to transfer her anger onto something else. "I'll be in the training yard," she informed her family and saw Jon nod in understanding.

"Don't be late for dinner," he told her and she took off. There had been a time when the rebuilt training yard of Winterfell was the place she had spent the majority of her time in, trying to find herself again. Too bad Sansa had never been inclined to physical fighting. Nothing cleared the mind better, at least in Arya's opinion. It was actually one of the things she had in common with Clegane. Being in a fight, even a mock one, made one discard all the extraneous thoughts and focus only on the sword in one's hand and the opponent in the front.

The arena was empty, though it was clear it had been used earlier, the ground scuffed and even upturned in places. Clegane must have put the guards through the wringer again. For all that his leg sometimes bothered him, he was still one of the most dangerous and skilled warriors in the land. Arya entered the armoury and found him sitting inside, sharpening his sword. He looked just as ugly as ever and only the gods knew what Sansa had ever seen in him, especially now that she herself had forgotten.

"What do you want?" he asked without raising his head, seemingly focused on the oil cloth he was running over the blade. Arya frowned. No insult, no glare. She might as well not be present for all the attention he gave her. He should hate her, rage at her for being the cause of Sansa's state. He had certainly never held his tongue when he had something nasty to say to her and she had gladly returned the favour. She might have hated him but Sansa had chosen him and Arya had respected that. Only now he looked pitiful and just as lost as Sansa had and Arya hated that fact more than anything.

"Catch!" she grabbed a blunted long sword from the rack and tossed it at him. He cursed as he fumbled to catch it and Arya smirked. "Let's go one round, Clegane. Just you and me."

He looked up at her, a sneer forming at his face.

"Are you crazy or just stupid? I've just spent half of the day beating men twice your size into the ground."

Arya took a blunted sword for herself and gave it an experimental swing. She was far more comfortable with Braavosi-style blades but she could hold her own with a Westerosi one as well, mostly due to her speed.

"Twice my size and half my speed. I'm fast, Clegane and you are tired. I might give you a challenge, after all."

He snorted but stood up, his face losing a bit of that despair.

"Getting confident, wolf bitch?"

Arya grinned. Good, that was more familiar. She might not be of any help to Sansa in her current state but she could help Sansa's husband keep his spirit up.

"Against you? Any time of the day."

The clash of his sword against hers as he drove her out of the armoury was a music to her ears.


	6. BRAN I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been told the end of this chapter makes people cry, so, tissue alert, I guess.

BRAN

"Why am I not surprised?" Bran told Jon as they stood on the gallery overlooking the training yard and watched Arya and Sandor try and beat each other. Arya was slightly faster and it kept her out of Sandor's reach for the most part. The blows either of them managed to land were insignificant as far as winning the bout went. Bran suppressed the twinge of envy at seeing his sister and goodbrother do something he would never be able to do.

"They are more alike than they would admit," Jon agreed, his eyes on the combatants. "Fighting helps them deal with the things beyond their control, like warging helps you."

"What will help Sansa to deal, I wonder."

Jon looked at him sharply.

"What do you mean?"

"It is quite possible that Sansa might never regain her memory," Bran said. "We can tell her things, fill in most of the blanks but to her it will be like a story. Yes, it is a story about her life but because she does not remember living through it, she will never feel connected to those events."

"Are you worried she will not be able to handle it?" Jon asked, turning to face his cousin fully. "That she will... break... under the strain of trying to cope?"

"It is possible," Bran admitted, feeling bad just for saying it. Sansa was his older sister, after all and if he could, he would make her better immediately. "I hope it is not the case but we must prepare for it nonetheless."

He looked down into the yard where Sandor was currently having the upper hand and Arya was furiously trying to break away from his onslaught. Bran might not have been a regular visitor recently but he knew his sister's bond with the large man was strong.

"Sandor is a good man. He will support her but only if she lets him."

Jon nodded just as a shout from the yard announced Arya's loss of a weapon. Sandor said something to her which neither of the men caught but it earned him a furious growl and an attempted kick that he easily evaded. He gathered both of the training swords and took them back to the armoury, emerging a moment later. Arya was sulking at her loss but he ignored her as he climbed the steps to the gallery.

"When did you arrive?" he asked them directly.

"About two hours ago," Bran replied and Sandor glanced at Jon.

"That beast of yours?"

"Left outside as usual. He's too big to fit into any of the yards."

"Good," he said and rubbed the unscarred side of his face tiredly. "The servants will take care of you."

Bran kept silent but Jon didn't have that much restraint. Then again, Jon had had the least contact with Sandor out of all of the Starks.

"Sandor, if there's anything either of us can do-"

"There's nothing," Sandor cut him off brusquely. "So piss off with your pity, Targaryen."

Bran winced. When Sandor called someone in the family by their House name, it meant he was angry. And only he could make a title or a name sound like an insult. Jon flinched at the rebuke before he straightened up, glaring at the older and taller man.

"I only meant to offer my sympathies and any help I could provide as the Prince of the Realm. Sansa is my family, too."

The two men held their gazes for several moments, long enough for Arya to join them. She purposefully bumped into Sandor as she passed him and slapped Jon upside the back of his head, breaking the tension immediately.

"If you look at his ugly face for too long, you'll go blind," she admonished Jon. Sandor snorted and Arya stuck out her tongue at him. Bran sighed inwardly. It seemed he was the only mature person in the group, even if he was the youngest there.

"Dinner will be served shortly," he announced to no one in particular. "So if we are done here..."

His reminder was heeded but the dinner was a solemn affair, Sansa's empty chair at the dais reminding them all about the reason for all of the remaining Stark siblings to be gathered in Winterfell again. 

Bran ate little, observing his family instead. Sandor was the hardest to read, his face void of any emotion as he ignored everything around him. Arya was still looking guilty. She was blaming herself for Sansa's accident from what Rickon had told him. Jon looked contemplative, his face serious as he most likely thought on how best to handle the situation. And Rickon was unusually serious as well, looking in turns at Sandor, Arya, Jon and Bran. He had been the baby of the family for so long that he automatically sought reassurance from his elders.

Bran finished eating first and pushed himself away from the table. He had grown too big to be carried around by Hodor years ago. It was Lord Tyrion who had once again come through for him. The small man had designed a kind of a chair on wheels that served Bran well enough and made it easier for him to move around. He left his siblings at the table and had a servant push him down the corridor to Sansa's room. Arya had said their sister had planned on resting but Bran saw no harm in checking on her.

He found her still awake. She was trying to sleep but was obviously failing and Bran could see she was glad for his interruption.

"Brandon?" she asked softly and he nodded, hating how her eyes went to his legs before looking at him with pity. He had gone through the process once before and didn't mean to suffer through it again.

"I'm glad to be alive," he told her, watching as she flushed at being caught. "It has been years and I adapted. Starks are hard people, we can endure anything."

Sansa brushed her hair away from her face as she sat up straighter in the bed. She resembled their mother greatly at that moment although Bran wasn't sure if it wasn't merely his mind replacing his mother's face with Sansa's in his memories. He would have to look back at his mother later to make sure.

"I heard about your work at the Wall," she said. "You will be as famous as Brandon the Builder."

"And it will help the realm," Bran replied. "What about you, Sansa? Is there anything I can do to help you?"

She looked down at her covers and then to a small dress on the side table.

"Can you restore my memories?"

He had to shake his head no and Sansa smiled sadly at him.

"Then, no. There is nothing you can do."

"When will you talk to your husband?" Bran asked, watching carefully for her reaction. Sansa's fingers clenched in the covers and she let her hair slip past her face as if to better hide herself. "You cannot hide forever. Sooner or later you will have to face him."

"I know!" she burst out, looking straight at Bran. "I know," she repeated more softly. "But I cannot, not yet. He is the Hound and the last thing I remember about him is how afraid of him I was."

"Sandor," Bran pronounced carefully, "Has not been the Hound for years. The Sansa I know would not be hiding from him."

"But I am not that Sansa anymore. Stop thinking like that," she insisted and he grinned at her widely.

"Are you sure? Because I do not think that the Sansa you were at eleven would be shouting at her crippled brother like you are."

It was almost satisfying seeing the red flush spread across her face. He was telling the truth, of course. Sansa as she had been at eleven had been unfailingly polite, Arya being the only one capable of making her lose her composure. The older Sansa, the one that had had to deal with the war and winter and bannermen and dragons, well, that Sansa knew that there was a limit to how polite one could be and that sometimes losing one's temper helped accomplish things faster.

"I do not expect you to throw yourself into his arms at once," Bran spoke finally. "But maybe you could just try and talk to him. I think it would help both of you."

"But what if I flinch away from him?" she asked in a small voice. "Wouldn't that hurt him?"

She had a good point, Bran realized. If only she could be shown that Sandor was not someone she should fear. And that was when he remembered the servants' talk he had overheard earlier.

"Are you strong enough to walk?" he asked and when she nodded he continued. "Then dress quickly. We are going to the sept."

Bran didn't answer any of Sansa's questions as they hurried to the little sept that served the family needs. He hoped that they arrived soon enough to be able to hide and observe what was happening. They were in luck as the sept was empty when they arrived and Bran directed Sansa towards a little niche in the back, half-hidden behind the Stranger's statue.

"Bran?"

"Just a few moments," he replied, waiting anxiously and hoping he had been right. A couple of tense minutes later, the door opened again and Bran felt Sansa clutch at his arm when a small girl of five entered with several candles in her hands, Sandor following behind her. He stayed by the door while the girl went straight for the Mother's altar, carefully putting the candle in a holder.

"Please, watch over my mother because she is a good mother to us," she said in a clear voice as she bowed and moved over to the Maiden's altar, "Please, watch over my mother because she is as pretty as you," the Crone's altar, "Please, guide my mother back to us," the Smith's, "Please, give her strength to come back."

At that moment, she faltered, looking back to Sandor.

"Who should I pray to next?"

"It doesn't matter," he told his daughter in a voice more gentle than Bran had ever heard. "They all hear you no matter which one you call on. Just put the candles in place and bow."

The girl obeyed and stepped back until she stood with her back against her father's legs.

"When will she get better?" she asked.

"Soon, Magpie, don't worry."

The girl looked down, fidgeting with her now empty hands.

"Lina said that mother forgot about us."

"It won't last."

Catelyn sniffled a bit.

"She doesn't love us anymore. You remember people you love and she doesn't remember us so she doesn't love us."

Bran was the one holding Sansa's hand this time. It might have been wrong to intrude on this scene but Sansa needed to see for herself the man that Sandor had become. He might have been brusque and even impolite at times but when it came to his wife and children, he was nothing but gentle. Like at this very moment when he knelt down and turned his daughter around to face him.

"Magpie, look at me," he said as he grasped her chin softly and tilted her head up. "Your mother still loves you, never doubt that."

"But-" Catelyn was about to protest but he shushed her.

"She forgot because she hit her head, right?" the girl nodded and he continued. "Her head was hurt and her mind forgot us, yes, but tell me, do you love her?" there was a vigorous nod. "Do you love her with your head?"

"No," Catelyn frowned as she tried to work it out. "You love with your heart, not your head."

"And did she hurt her heart?" he asked leadingly and Catelyn's face brightened as she hugged her father tightly, shaking her head in response. He lifted her up as if she weighed nothing and she snuggled into him contentedly though not before planting a big kiss on his scarred cheek.

"I love you, father," she whispered but in the silence of the sept, the words echoed to every corner.

Bran didn't hear if Sandor replied anything back. He might have as he was walking out but Bran turned his attention to Sansa who was silently shaking, one hand pressed against her mouth as tears streamed down her cheeks.

"Don't be afraid to talk to him," he advised her again. "For your own peace of mind, if nothing else."

She looked at him and nodded before she walked over to the Mother's altar and sank down to her knees, her lips moving in silent prayer. Bran leaned back in his chair, content to wait until Sansa was ready to go back.


	7. SANSA III

SANSA

Sansa couldn't have said how long she had spent in the sept. She had prayed at first but as the time passed, her mind kept going back to the scene she and Bran had witnessed. The Hound had been so gentle and patient with his daughter that she still found it hard to believe. It went against everything she had ever heard about him. But maybe she was just being unjust. Her own father had been said to be a cold and stern man but when it had come to his family, he had been the best father she could have imagined.

Catelyn - who looked so much like Sansa herself, erasing any doubts about her parentage - seemed a gentle child, well-behaved and polite, much like Sansa herself. And she loved her father very much. She trusted him. It was that absolute trust in Catelyn's manner that had made Sansa cry. The girl hadn't shied away from seeking comfort from her father, being certain she would receive it.

Bran had kept silent the whole time they were in the sept and afterwards, too. He hadn't seemed surprised by the Hound's behaviour in the sept, in fact, he had expected it otherwise he wouldn't have taken her to witness it.

"You know him quite well, don't you?" Sansa asked when they paused in front of Bran's room.

"During the winter, after the Others had been defeated, all of us lived together for several years. I have come to know and respect Sandor during that time," Bran opened the door to his room and then looked back at her. "It might look like I am trying to push you beyond what you are ready for but I know you, Sansa. You are stronger than you think yourself to be."

"I do not feel strong right now," she admitted and Bran smiled at her understandingly.

"Father told me once that a man was brave only when he was afraid. It is the same with a strength. Try and get some sleep and things will be clearer in the morning."

Sansa nodded, wondering when her little brother had gotten so wise. She bid him good night and walked towards her room, deep in thought. Bran and Arya both thought she should try and see her husband as soon as she could. If only she could make sure that she wouldn't react badly to him. Seeing him interact with their daughter had helped a lot but the sept had been barely lit and the candle light had softened his features somewhat.

Still thinking about how to best approach the situation, Sansa didn't realize she was pushing open the wrong door. Only when she entered the room that she didn't recognize, did she realize that some part of her being must have still remembered. This room was smaller than her own and it didn't take long for Sansa to realize this had to be a nursery. A young woman was napping in a chair by the hearth but Sansa didn't pay any attention to her. It was the large cradle that drew her attention.

Walking quietly over, Sansa looked inside at her second daughter. Daeryssa, she recalled Arya calling her. The baby was asleep, one small fist in her mouth, the other holding on to the blanket. It was hard to say in the low light but her hair seemed darker than Sansa's own. She had her father's colouring, Sansa thought inexplicably.

The woman in the chair stirred and Sansa took her leave quickly. She didn't feel up to answering questions about her presence in the room but she paid more attention to where she was going. There were two other doors that almost beckoned to her and she didn't think long before opening the closer one.

It was her son's room but there were two boys sleeping in it. Sansa was puzzled at it until she saw the resemblance one of the boys carried to Jon. She didn't even know Jon had any children and it made little sense. Jon was her senior by three years and a brother to the king besides but still, hadn't he taken the vows of the Night Watch? It was another thing she would have to ask about. Her own son had kicked off his blankets and Sansa covered him again, smoothing his hair. The boy rolled over and mumbled something but thankfully stayed asleep.

There was only one room left and Sansa hesitated before entering. It had been several hours since her eldest left the sept but her heartbroken voice asking if she was still loved by her mother was hard to forget. What could Sansa tell her if Catelyn was to wake up? She pushed the door open quietly, careful not to wake the room's occupant.

Catelyn was lying on her right side, clutching something bright in her hands. It looked to be some silk garment, dyed vivid green. Sansa swallowed hard as she realized that it must have been hers and Catelyn was holding on to it to seek comfort from its presence. She reached to touch her daughter's hand, caressing it and thinking back on the scene in the sept.

"She likes that one the most," someone rasped from behind her and Sansa gasped in fright, whirling around only to see a large man's silhouette framed in the light of the open door. She knew only two men that large and Hodor was not nearly so verbose. Sansa swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. It seemed the fate had forced her meeting with her husband earlier than she had wanted. Unsure as how to proceed, she did what came naturally to her and fell back on her courtesies.

"My lord, I apologize but you startled me," she inclined her head and heard him snort.

"Back to the chirping then," he sounded almost disappointed as he moved into the room. He seemed to take care to stay in the shadows and Sansa wondered if it was intentional to spare her the sight of his burned face. Upon first waking up she wouldn't think him capable of such consideration. At the moment, she was quite willing to acknowledge there was more to him than his reputation.

"I do not understand," she said, more for the lack of anything else to say than a desire for an explanation.

"Of course you wouldn't," he said, moving closer. Sansa almost stepped back but caught herself in time. This was her husband, she told herself firmly. She had no reason to be afraid. He still paused, noticing her aborted movement. "I will not hurt you," he told her and Sansa glanced down in embarrassment.

"I am sorry," she spoke, knowing the words were inadequate but still the only thing she could think about.

"It is not your fault," he dismissed her concern and they both felt silent. It was awkward and Sansa tried to come up with something to ask, anything to break this stalemate. The dress in her room came to her mind.

"Arya said you call Catelyn Magpie. Why?"

If he was surprised by her willingness to discuss things with him, he didn't show it.

"She has always liked bright colours and shiny things," he started. "As she grew older and learned to walk, she started to take the ones she liked the best to her room. Every time one of your things went missing, we would find it stashed away in her bed. Calling her Magpie seemed natural, considering it all."

"Oh," Sansa looked back at the sleeping girl. She wouldn't have guessed that being the reason and suddenly wondered just how many more things did she forget about her family. It was not just her husband's identity. Jon had a son, too, one that seemed to be friends with her own. Maybe Arya was married, too, even if she hadn't mentioned anything. Bran had grown wise beyond his years and Rickon was soon to become a man in his own right. Did he have a sweetheart of his own? She didn't know and she wanted to. She wanted to remember, she wanted to know how she came to love her husband, she wanted to know all the mischief her children had gotten in, she wanted... she wanted her life back, simple as that. But to do that, she couldn't keep hiding. She needed to be strong even if she felt weak.

"Could we talk?" she asked and then hurried to clarify. "Not right now, I mean, but on the morrow, maybe. I want to ask so many things about the past and you are probably the best person to tell me."

She was afraid he would refuse her request even if she told herself it was foolish to worry about such a thing.

"Are you sure?" he sounded concerned and Sansa made herself walk over to him, putting one hand on his arm briefly.

"I am sure," she replied before she hurried out of the room, still surprised by her own daring at touching him. Bran must have been right and she was stronger than she had thought herself to be. Or maybe the same part of her that had led her into her children's rooms had also made her unafraid of him enough to do that. Whatever it was, Sansa took it as a good sign that maybe her memories would come back if given enough time. And the thought was enough to finally let her sleep.


	8. ARYA III

ARYA

There was a marked change in Sansa's behaviour in the morning. Bran had mentioned he had taken her to the sept last night and Arya knew very well that praying had a soothing effect on people, regardless of the deity they were praying to. And it seemed to have helped Sansa, considering her much more determined demeanour.

"I need to ask you something," was the first thing Sansa had told her after having Arya called into her room. "I would like to talk to..." there she paused before finishing, "my husband and I think it would be best if we met in a less intimate place than our own room. And since I do not remember just how much has changed after the rebuilding, I do not know where we could talk freely and without, well, the reminders that he would recall and I would not."

Arya regarded her sister for a moment as she tried to think about the request. Sansa seemed to have chosen to approach this as a negotiation of sorts, seeking a neutral ground for the first meeting and Arya almost shouted with joy because this was their Sansa coming through. Arya had been surprised by Sansa's political skill when they had first met after their years apart but she had gotten used to it ever since then.

"The godswood," she said at last. "Neither of you ever spent a lot of time in there for some reason. Besides, the fresh air might do you good," she added as she looked at Sansa critically.

"I am a bit pale still," Sansa agreed as she stood up from the bed and went for the wardrobe to pick a dress to wear. "And since when are you interested in other people's appearances?"

"Since I had to learn how to change mine," Arya replied before changing the subject. "A raven came today from Daenerys. She sends her best wishes and promises to visit as soon as you feel up for visitors. And Aegon sends his regards, too."

"Aegon?" Sansa asked. "You mean the King?"

"Yes, why?"

"You call him by his first name?" Sansa sounded scandalized and Arya laughed.

"Sansa, a couple of years ago he asked me to marry him and I broke his nose for that. I think after such a thing I can call him whatever I want," Arya knew she shouldn't find Sansa's expression so amusing but it couldn't be helped.

"You broke his nose?" Sansa dropped a purple cotton dress much better suited for warmer climates. "You actually hit the King for proposing to you?"

"It was a bad time for me," Arya shrugged, not wishing to dwell on the identity crisis she had gone through five years ago. "I did apologize to him and he is quite happy with his wife, so no harm done."

Sansa frowned in disapproval but dropped the subject. She held up a dress of dark grey wool with green embroidery on the sleeves and neckline.

"What do you think?" she asked almost shyly and Arya suppressed a laugh, remembering one memorable dinner when Sansa put on that particular dress. The neckline that was usually modest had gotten quite revealing with Sansa's breasts increasing in size due to her second pregnancy and Clegane had spent the majority of time glaring at any man whose gaze had lingered longer than he had deemed acceptable.

"No, Clegane hates that one," was all she said and Sansa put the dress back before pulling another one of a similar cut but all in green and Arya nodded. The dress looked new and was warm enough to be worn outside. Figuring Sansa could handle dressing on her own, Arya stood up.

"I'll send Clegane to the godswood, then. Was there anything else?"

"No," Sansa smiled at her, for a moment looking like everything was alright. "Thank you."

"Think nothing of it," Arya mumbled, almost embarrassed by Sansa's warm words and she quickly made her escape. Being thanked for such a small thing didn't sit well with Arya. Jon had told her to stop blaming herself but Arya wouldn't do it until Sansa was back to normal or as close to it as was possible. And if Clegane could help with that, then Arya was going to make sure he would. If anyone wanted Sansa back to what she had been before more than Arya herself, it was him. And that made them allies again, no matter how much Arya disliked the thought.


	9. SANDOR I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since he did get the short end of the stick in this fic I figured the least I can do is give him a POV, right?

SANDOR

Sandor had been in the solar since long before dawn. He had rarely gone into that room, leaving the administrative part of the regency to his wife and the maester, preferring to watch directly over the future ruler of the North. Rickon was a good boy, if a bit wild and Sandor had done his best to redirect that wildness into the acceptable pursuits like fighting or riding. The northmen respected strength and competence and Sandor made damn sure the boy could keep up with the best.

The point was, Sandor had few reasons to be in the solar and the only reason he was there on that particular morning was because - as much as he would deny it to anyone but his wife - he was feeling sentimental. His encounter with Sansa in their daughter's room had unsettled him greatly and he spent most of the night tossing and turning in his too small bed in the guest room he had taken for his after the accident.

When he had been told for the first time that Sansa had lost her memories from the past eleven years, he hadn't been quite sure what to do with himself. Eleven years was more or less how long he had known her and he had known even before the maester had spoken to him in that commiserating voice of his - the one that had almost made Sandor punch him - that Sansa had forgotten about him.

His first instinct upon learning of that had been to get drunk until he would forget, too. The notion had passed quickly but it had still left him feeling like he had somehow betrayed Sansa's trust in him. Which had been utterly ridiculous, of course. It had not been like she would have known in her current state.

In the end, he had dealt with it as usual - by clamming up and doing his best to ignore everyone and everything with the exception of his own children. Sansa had always claimed that he had been a good father and he hadn't been about to disappoint her.

When he had seen Sansa stand over Catelyn's bed the previous night, he had thought that maybe her loss of memory had been a temporary thing. He had said that thing about the green silk scarf to see if she would turn around and tell him with a smile that she had known that. Instead, she had been frightened out of her wits, as much as she had tried to hide it. And then she had started with her polite nonsense and he had known that whatever it had been that had made her come into their daughter's room that late in the night had had nothing to do with her memory coming back miraculously.

It had been frustrating to see and hear her display the behaviour that had so irked him at the beginning of their acquaintance - a frightened child hiding behind her courtesy when she couldn't have looked him in the face without bursting into tears. So it had caught him by surprise when she had not only asked him to talk with her about their past but also touched him of her own volition.

It had been that tentative touch on his arm, right above his elbow that had caused him to lose sleep so completely. She hadn't remembered him, that much had been clear by her nervousness but that touch... Tall as Sansa was, he still towered over her a fair bit and so she had developed a habit of touching his arm above his elbow to get his attention. It had become an unconscious gesture on her part and he probably shouldn't read much into it, lest he would be disappointed in the end.

"So this is where you were hiding," Arya was leaning against the door to the solar and watching him and Sandor berated himself for not paying more attention.

"What do you want, wolf bitch?" he asked tiredly. She had been on her best behaviour ever since the accident but they had been hostile to each other for so long it was hard to let go of the ingrained habits.

"An epitome of manners as usual, eh?" she moved further into the solar before she tossed his cloak at him. "Sansa must be waiting in the godswood by now. She wants to talk to you. Maybe she will finally send you away."

"You would like that, wouldn't you?"

A strange expression flickered across her face.

"No, I wouldn't," she said quietly enough that he wasn't sure at first if he had heard her at all. "It's not that I like you or anything," she said more loudly, glaring at him as if the very concept was insulting. "But when she finally wises up to do that, she shouldn't be a pale imitation of her child self."

"Careful, girl," Sandor told her, knowing nothing enraged her more than him patronizing her. "That almost sounded like you give a damn."

"Piss off, Clegane!" she muttered before she turned her back on him. "And get your arse over to the godswood. It's not polite to let a lady wait."

"As if you would know anything about being a lady," he told her before leaving the room abruptly, depriving her of having the last word. But the brief levity didn't last as he crossed the courtyard quickly. His wife was waiting for him and he didn't intend on making the wait any longer.

The Winterfell's godswood was a large place that had always made him feel like the time passed differently in it. The air was warmer around the springs and as he approached the largest one, he could see Sansa sitting on a bench that had been installed there during the rebuilding of Winterfell. He didn't want to startle her as he had last night and so he stopped at the end of the path, observing her for a moment. He couldn't see her fully as she was facing away from him but he noted she was more pale than usual. She might have even lost some weight, not having eaten anything during those days she had been unconscious but her figure was obscured beneath a dark, fur-lined cloak.

"Sansa," he called out and could see the effort she had gone through not to jump at the sound of his voice. As fidgety as a scared bird. She had outgrown her timidity a long time ago and this regression was almost painful to watch.

"My lord," she replied as she stood up, facing him fully. Well, she was facing in his direction but her eyes were downcast, not looking at his face. It was a prudent gesture, he realized. As much as he hated her inability to meet his eyes, having her look at him and become repulsed by the sight of his scars would have been much worse. Still, some things should be addressed.

"Call me Sandor," he told her as he watched her reaction. "I never liked all those sers and my lords you were spouting."

"That would not be pro-" she paused as if something occured to her and she gave a small nod. "Of course, Sandor. As you wish."

He wondered if he was wrong to force this familiarity on her when she was still clearly so out of sorts but for all her paleness and seeming frailty, Sansa had always proven to be strong enough and he knew beyond any doubt that she could handle calling him by his first name.

"Your sister said you wished to talk to me."

"Yes, I did. Could we sit down? I still feel somewhat weak."

He followed her to the bench, sitting so that she would look upon the whole side of his face. It was a small courtesy that he extended to her willingly enough. She must have noticed because he saw her looking at him before she directed her gaze to her lap and her fidgeting hands.

"I know that things must have been hard for you these past few days and I just want to say that I am sorry for being unable to-"

"Don't!" Sandor cut her off the moment he realized what she was about to do. "Don't apologize for that!"

"But I forgot about you, about our children, about our life. Don't you hate me for that?" she insisted with such a vehemence that he wasn't sure where it was all coming from.

"Trust me, little bird, I spent too much of my life hating many people for great many things. You never were amongst those people. Never will be."

"Oh," she said quietly. And then, "Why did you call me a little bird?" she asked curiously and Sandor wondered if her interested tone was a good or a bad thing.

"I used to call you that all the time in the King's Landing," he admitted. "And I started with it soon after we met up again. A force of habit, you could say."

"I think I like it," she told him as she blushed, looking down again and Sandor tried to squash the hope that had risen up in him. She was just being polite, that was all.

"Is there anything you want to know?" he asked in an effort to distract himself from her words.

"Arya said we had had a connection of some kind in the King's Landing. What did she mean by that?"

That was more direct than Sandor had expected but he could answer this one easily. Shortly after their marriage, Sansa had, through various means, extracted all he had thought about her and their relationship during their stay in the capital. Having already talked about it once made it easier for him to repeat it to her now.

"It is a long story but the gist of it would be that you made me face up to some things I would rather forget and I made you see the world for what it was."

"But what does that mean?" she asked. Sandor sighed as he leaned back. Maybe the best course of action would be to relay to her the details of one of their encounters.

"Do you want to know why I started calling you a little bird?" he offered. The first night of the Hand's tourney might not have been his best moment, getting drunk and trying to scare her but it was the first time he noticed her true self and revealed a part of himself in return. Besides, Sansa had always liked tourneys. If he told her how he had won one, well, it couldn't hurt, could it?

"Yes, I would like that," she agreed as she turned on the bench to better face him.

"King Robert held a tourney to honour your father," Sandor started as he tried to ignore the way she was paying attention to his every word. "It was a big thing, knights and freeriders coming from all across the Westeros. Only the jousts took a whole day and it got so late that the last four competitors were to ride in the morning instead. I was one of them. Jaime Lannister was another, then my brother and the youngest Tyrell, Loras. I wasn't a pleasant man back then, Sansa. When off duty, I used to drink until I could barely stand. I was officially on duty that night but it was a feast and everyone was drinking. And I was the closest to facing my brother in combat that I was in years and I needed the wine to deal with it better," he held up a hand when she opened her mouth to ask. "All in good time. So, you were this bright-eyed girl, wet with love for Joffrey," he fairly spat out the name, the years doing nothing to lessen his shame for his inaction back when Joffrey had sat the Iron Throne. "And Joff was playing his part valiantly until the feast was over and he ordered me to take you back to the Keep. Gods, you were scared and I was really drunk by then and then you tried to talk to me. It was all polite nonsense about how well I rode that day - as if a lady like you knew the first thing about jousting. It was all learned phrases and it reminded me of those talking birds from the Summer Isles, the ones taught to speak and then kept in a cage for the amusement of their owner. And you seemed just like them, repeating what you have been taught, finding polite words for even a brute like me," he frowned as he recalled what followed next, his fist clenching in remembered fury. "What angered me, though, was that not only did you have polite words for me, you had polite words to say about my brother, too and I couldn't have stood that. In my mind, Gregor didn't deserve any kind of courtesy, much less from someone so bright and pretty as you. So I lashed out at you. I forced you to look at me, to look at my scars and I told you in detail just why my face looked the way it did. I told you how it was Gregor's doing, how he was the one to hurt me by pressing my face into a brazier when I was still a child," he paused then, hearing her gasp. "I told you all that because I wanted to scare you, to show you that knights and titles, they were worth nothing. And then you surprised me more than anyone ever had."

"How?" she asked and he turned to face her, scars and all, suddenly aware of the small hand resting on his clenched fist. He couldn't recall when she had touched him and he was taken aback almost as much as when she had told him that his brother had been no true knight.

"You were kind to me. Instead of running away and crying, you tried to comfort me. And that was when I realized that you were different. That you meant all that polite nonsense you spoke. That it was more than just words for you. That somehow, you were better than everyone else. That maybe you really were just a little bird caged for the amusement of your owners but you couldn't see the cage for some reason," he broke off before he would tell her even more. Sansa was now looking at him, looking at his face and she had such an expression of kindness and compassion in her eyes that he could almost believe his wife was back with him.

"I..." she stopped to sniffle a bit before she smiled, not widely but it was genuine. "That was beautiful."

He pulled his hand away from hers, embarrassed by his outburst. She had always been able to do this to him, to make him reveal more than he had planned to.

"So that's why I started to call you a little bird," he finished roughly in an effort to save face but her little smile got wider as if she suspected that was what he was trying to do.

"Thank you for telling me," she told him before she regarded him with a thoughtful look. "Did you get to face your brother in the joust?"

"Not exactly," he replied, the topic of that second day safer than the night preceding it. "I unhorsed Jaime and the Tyrell boy managed to unhorse Gregor. Gregor didn't take it well and attacked him. I intervened and we fought for a short time before we were ordered to stop. Since I saved his life, Tyrell yielded to me and I was named the champion."

"I am sure you would have won regardless," she claimed and Sandor couldn't help but feel a bit better at her display of faith. "Could you tell me more?"

"Of course, little bird. What do you want to know?"

And just like that, they started talking to each other again.


	10. JON II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The latest chapter I have finished. Two others are currently in the making plus one side-fic and a sequel.

JON

Jon had taken the four children who could walk to see Viserion after the morning meal, thinking to distract them, Catelyn most of all. The dragon was a sufficiently rare and interesting sight that the five year old girl did put all the other thoughts out of her mind, tentatively patting the muzzle that would have been able to swallow her whole.

It was an amusing sight. Most people tended to fear the dragons but the children had no such inhibitions, viewing Viserion as another giant pet, there for them to touch and play with. As a matter of fact, Jon had to take hold of both Aemon's and Ned's tunics no less than four times to prevent them from climbing up Viserion's front paw on to his back. At least Catelyn and Visenya showed more restraint and settled for merely petting the dragon on his head.

It was only after pointing out that the dragon needed to eat just like them and that it was the time for the midday meal that Jon had finally pried the boys away. The girls went willingly, Catelyn holding two year old Visenya by hand. It was almost uncanny how similar the child was to her mother at the same age and with Visenya taking after her own mother appearance-wise, it was like watching young Sansa and Arya again.

Later on, Jon wouldn't recall which of the children veered to the side first but it was Ned who led his sister and cousins on a chase into the godswood. They often played in there, just like Jon and his supposed siblings had years ago and Jon didn't think much of their game, walking behind and keeping an eye on the four of them. He had only remembered Arya's words about the other people who would be ocuppying the godswood at this time when Ned cried out "Mother!" and sprinted towards the two people sitting on a bench by the largest spring.

For a moment, Jon feared for how Sansa would react. She had been told about her children and Jon didn't doubt for a moment that she would still love them as fiercely as before her accident, regardless of whether she regained her memories or not. But seeing them for the first time could be a shock to her. He shouldn't have worried though.

Ned was stopped in his flight by his father who quickly stood up and easily snatched the running boy up, holding him so they were face to face.

"What did I tell you about running around and screaming like a wild beast?" he questioned and Ned hung his head contritely.

"To not to?" he replied and then squirmed in Sandor's hold to look at his mother. "I am sorry, mother."

Sansa smiled, her eyes slightly uncertain but Jon and Sandor were probably the only ones to pick on that.

"It is alright, Ned," there was a hesitant tremor in her voice as she said the name as if testing it out. "Put him down, Sandor."

The moment the boy's legs touched the ground, he scrambled towards Sansa and climbed into her lap, throwing his arms around her neck. Jon could see Sansa shifting her position unconsciously to better support him. It seemed her body remembered all of the comforting motions needed to hold a small child. Then again, Sansa had taken to motherhood from the first moment she had learned about her first pregnancy.

"You were hurt and I couldn't see you," Ned mumbled into her neck and Sansa stroked his hair comfortingly.

"I was hurt," she agreed. "But I am getting better," she assured him but her eyes were trained on her daughter who stood next to Sandor, still holding her cousin's hand. "And I love you all, always will, no matter what."

"Even Ryssa?" the boy questioned as he scrunched up his nose. "She pulls my hair," he complained and Sansa suppressed a giggle.

"You pulled my hair, too," came the unexpected support from Catelyn who climbed on the bench, seating herself next to her mother comfortably. Jon picked up Visenya before she could start fussing about being ignored, Aemon attaching himself to his leg. Jon glanced at Sandor to gauge his mood and saw the older man observing his own family with almost a content expression on his face.

"Are you alright now?"

The burned side of Sandor's mouth twitched.

"We will be."


	11. BRAN II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, been a while eh? I am terribly sorry for the delay. Long story short, I strayed to other fandoms writing-wise (OUAT and SGU mainly) as you might have noticed. It happens to me, unfortunately, when I find a pairing that catches my attention. This time, it was SanSan that suffered. But the inspiration stroke unexpectedly when, after a couple of days away from LJ (I do hang out on Tumblr a lot these days), I came back and saw the "Words and Deeds" meme. Well, let's say I was in turn flattered, humbled and ashamed of my lack of participation recently. This update is but a meagre token of apology for that. I still love SanSan and plan to finish my WIPs, it just might take a while. Please, be patient.

BRAN

Sansa joined the rest of the family for a luncheon in the solar and Bran thought she looked much better than the previous evening. Catelyn and Ned occupied her attention for the best part of the meal but she interacted with them naturally enough. She was more timid around Sandor but she smiled at him now and then and not once did she flinch away from him, not even when he turned to answer Rickon and his scarred face was displayed in full. According to Arya, the couple had had a long talk in the godswood that morning and even if it had spoiled Bran's plans for the day, he was glad that a progress had been made.

After the rest of the meal was taken away and children pried away from their parents, a more companionable mood settled on the room. Bran couldn't help but smile. The last time the whole family had been together like this had been shortly after Daeryssa's birth, more than six months past. And the gathering had been larger, with their Tully uncles in attendance as well, not to mention the Royal family. But the people in this room, the six of them, they were more than family, more than blood and marital ties. They were a pack and that included Sandor, too. It had been Arya to name them as such and she had been the one to include her goodbrother among them, much as she had pretended to dislike him.

Speaking of Arya, she was stretched belly-down on the rug in front of the unlit hearth, pointedly ignoring Sansa's scandalous looks as she leafed through the letters that had arrived during the day and sorted them into two distinct piles - inquiries from the bannermen who had heard about Sansa's accident and wishes of luck from friends and family. When she started whistling and swaying her shins to and fro, Sansa could no longer keep silent.

"That is not very lady-like, Arya." the tone of an older sister lecturing the younger was clear in Sansa's voice and Bran bit his lip to stop from snickering as Arya gave Sansa her best innocent look.

"Well, according to your husband, I'm not a lady at all," she replied and went back to sorting the letters. Rickon laughed out loud while Bran decided, wisely, to stay out of the argument. For all that Sansa and Arya had grown closer in the past few years, some of their old rivalry remained and with Sansa's personality partially reverting to her childhood one, the clash was inevitable.

"It is unseemly." Sansa tried again and Arya shrugged.

"I'm wearing breeches and I'm more comfortable this way."

"We should probably talk about how we are going to arrange things." Jon intervened, recognizing the signs of an impending argument like Bran himself had. It wouldn't be the first nor last time it happened. "You are Rickon's regent and he still has more than a year before he comes of an age so we need to make some plans in case your memory doesn't come back soon."

"I thought we shared the regency," Sansa spoke slowly, frowning as if trying to recall something. "Sandor and I. That is what Maester Denar told me." She looked at Sandor who sighed.

"I dealt with the boy while you took care of the rest," he told her quietly. "I have no patience for your bannermen and they have no patience for me. Your Northmen wanted a Stark to lead them so we gave them one."

Bran nodded in confirmation when Sansa looked at him.

"I was busy with the rebuilding of the Wall," he said. "And I only came of age two years ago myself. Arya acted as the Warden until she and Jon got married, though. Maybe she could take over again for a while."

"I planned to leave for King's Landing in two weeks but I can stay longer if you need me," Arya offered and Sansa smiled a little before turning serious again.

"I wouldn't wish to delay your plans," she said but Arya shook her head.

"I will be grateful to you for any excuse to stay," she stated. "Besides, I have a couple of bruises I need to pay back to someone," she added, glaring at Sandor who shrugged.

"You were the one who wanted to take me on. Don't whine if you can't take a couple of whacks."

"You were fighting?" Sansa gasped, looking between the two of them. "Why?"

"Training," Arya replied as she stood up, stretching like a cat. "I am quite good with a sword, if I say so myself. And this ugly brute might have many, many, many faults but he's a good swordsman at least."

Sandor snorted, leaning back in his chair, a half-smirk on his face.

"Don't hurt yourself trying to think up something nice to say about me."

Bran didn't pay attention to the rest of the spat, watching Sansa instead. She was looking worried at first, looking between Arya and Sandor as they both moved into the centre of the room, Sandor trying to intimidate Arya with his size but then she relaxed and even smiled a little, as if something had occured to her. Bran wheeled himself over, putting one hand on her shoulder.

"Are you alright?" he asked quietly. She nodded, still smiling.

"They pretend to hate each other but they do not, not really."

"No," Bran laughed quietly. "They are too similar at times and that is why they clash so often but they do care about each other."

"Like a family," she said softly. "They are a family. We are a family."

Bran reached down to take Sansa's head, squeezing once.

"We are," he agreed. "I told you last night. Starks are hard people. We can endure anything and we will. You will too, Sansa. You are strong enough."

She nodded, looking over at Jon who took over Arya's previous task, sorting out the letters and pointing out things to Rickon who joined him while Arya herself was gesturing wildly as she explained to Sandor a small detail of footwork involved in a particular parrying manoeuvre.

"Jon and Arya are married, aren't they? The little boy of Ned's age and that girl-"

"Aemon and Visenya, yes, they are theirs."

Sansa frowned.

"Visenya is younger, correct?"

"Yes, she's only two years old," Bran explained, waiting for another question.

"Why would they be called Wolf Twins then?" she asked and Bran sucked in a breath, startled.

"Where did you hear that?"

"I... I am not sure," Sansa said slowly. "Why? What does that mean?"

"Did Maester Denar tell you about the scandal regarding Joffrey and his siblings?"

"They were fathered by the Queen's brother, Ser Jaime," Sansa said uncertainly which was understandable. Her knowledge of those years came from being told things by other people. Bran nodded.

"Yes, the Queen and her brother. The Lannister twins. Or the twin lions. Now look at Jon and Arya," he told her, knowing what she would see. The solemn Stark faces, long and pale, with dark hair and gray eyes. Their Northern heritage was clear and so was their familial connection. Sansa turned to Bran, the question clear in her eyes. "People are often unkind. When Jon and Arya's relationship became known, there were many rumours about them and even more insults hurled their way. Wolf Twins is what they were called most often."

"Oh," Sansa whispered, a little sadly, Bran thought. "That is terrible, to mock them like that."

"It is. It wasn't that bad in the North, though. That's why I find it interesting that you know the expression. No one in Winterfell would be so disrespectful as to use those words."

"But that would mean..." Sansa trailed off as she realized what that might mean. "I must have remembered it!" she concluded, smiling widely. Her exclamation caught the attention of the other four people in the room.

"You remembered?" Rickon shouted, barreling across the room to where Sansa sat, embracing her tightly. Sansa laughed lightly but then shook her head.

"Not everything, just a small detail, but that means my memories are not entirely gone and they might come back with time. Right?" she turned to Bran who nodded thoughtfully.

"We should let Maester Denar look at you. And we should find out what prompted you to remember those words. There might be a pattern or something else that could help you to remember more."

"What did you recall?" Arya asked. Sansa flushed, looking down.

"The phrase 'Wolf Twins'. I am sorry."

"Don't be," Jon assured her. "The important thing is that you recalled something."

"I was thinking about how much your children looked like you and the words were there," she tried to explain herself.

"It is a good sign," Sandor rasped from her other side and Bran was stunned by the smile Sansa turned to her husband.

"I will remember you, I promise."

"You need not make any promises to me, little bird," he said in a voice even rougher than usual and Bran reached for Rickon's shoulder, quietly asking his younger brother to help him out of the room. Jon and Arya had already made themselves scarce and Bran allowed himself one last look back before the door closed on the couple within. Sandor was kneeling by Sansa's seat, holding her hands between his own and Sansa was smiling gently down at him.

Bran blinked and looked away. It was as he had told Jon. Sandor would be Sansa's support if she let him. And by the short scene he had just witnessed, she was more than willing to lean on him and Bran was glad for them both. They deserved their happiness back.

_TBC_


End file.
